


The Kismet Quartet

by hysterekly



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysterekly/pseuds/hysterekly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1 | Gaby has seen a lot of weird things since she started working at the convenience store, but she bores everyone for days with the story of the beautiful giant with a milk obsession.</p><p>2 | Flowers are Illya's life. He knows how to craft the perfect bouquet and he knows how to match a flower to someone's appearance, emotions, intent; but he doesn't know what to do with the dashing customer that keeps leaving him flowers.</p><p>3 | Gaby and Napoleon have three shared goals in life: to get the last pint of ice cream, become fabulously wealthy, and get that hot mailman to come over for dinner.</p><p>4 | Victoria's reviews make or break chefs and restaurants in her little fiefdom. Napoleon's not ready to concede defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. call the milkmaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suk0ea](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=suk0ea).



> This series of oneshots was written for suk0ea on tumblr for the MFU gift exchange. All the usual disclaimers; not my characters, blah blah. Enjoy!

Working at a convenience store might not be the most glamorous job, but it isn’t without its perks. Gaby and Napoleon spend their downtime watching youtube videos, seeing how many Skittles they can stuff in their mouth and still be able to talk to a customer, and a whole host of other games they’ve invented.

The customers themselves are a mixed bag; sometimes you get boring ones, but it’s fun to watch people pass through. Sometimes they talk too much or not at all, but their mannerisms and quirks are easy to see as they browse and fumble with change. Sometimes interesting doesn’t mean fun, like the drunk college kid that tries to haggle the price of cigarettes or the woman that decides she needs to sample the chocolate bars before finding the best one.

So it’s anyone’s guess whether it’s about to get interesting or frustrating when an enormous man bursts into the store like he’s on fire. She has to stifle a laugh as she points him in the right direction when he casts a panicked look at her and grunts, “Milk?”

People sometimes come in to get a quart of milk when they realize they’re out, but she still finds it a disproportionate reaction. Surely his bowl of cereal can wait!

When he dumps an armful of milk on the counter, Gaby whistles appreciatively. “What the h--”

“Do you have more?” He interrupts in a thick accent, staring down at her like it’s a life or death situation.

“Yeah,” she squints back up at him, certain that it’ll be entertaining to see him sweat a little.

“I need seven more gallons of milk. Please.”

Gaby sighs and counts the quarts of milk he already has and raises an eyebrow. “How are you gonna carry it all?”

“What?”

“It’s a lot of milk.” He looks taken aback, and she shrugs, not even trying to hide her grin.

“I’ll carry it.” He grinds the words out slowly, obviously annoyed. “Do. You. Have. Any. More. Milk?”

The desperation behind the irritated tone moves her slightly, and she decides that she likes his face. He seems like the type of man who wants to be in control, and Gaby likes that he’s kind of a hot mess right now, finds the distracted anxiety somehow endearing.

“I’ll go look.”

It’s delivery day, so they still have plenty in stock. The black crates they arrive in are too heavy for her to carry more than one at a time, so she stacks them and pushes them to the door. He’s waiting on the other side, and so she stops and gestures at the tower of milk crates as she walks back to the counter.

“You’ve got all those muscles, put them to good use.”

He drags them over with an ease that sparks momentary jealousy. He slaps a card down on the counter and begins to carry them out to his car, balancing three crates without even straining.

The nerve.

She looks at his card, running a finger across the imprinted name. Illya Kuryakin. It sounds familiar somehow, but she doesn’t know any Russians. Shrugging, she rings up his order and by the time he comes back in, the receipt is printing. She hands him a pen and he just scribbles illegibly on the paper.

Gaby makes as though to hand him back his card, but pulls her hand back at the last moment. “What’s it all for?”

His reach is long enough that he is easily able to snatch it from her, and the only response she gets is a perfunctory smile and a “Thanks” before he lifts the remaining crate and rushes out the door.

If it’s one thing Gaby hates, it’s an unresolved mystery.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Today’s Napoleon’s birthday, and she’s scrolling through bakery listings on her phone while she’s on the bus. Gaby’s been saving up for about a month just for his cake; he’s got expensive taste, and she doesn’t want a repeat of last year. Shuddering remembering the scene he’d made about the grocery store cupcakes she’d gotten as a prank, she picks the most expensive bakery with a good rating.

It’s full of amazing desserts, but she heads straight for the cakes. She leans down to look through the case, pressing against the window with her hands as she goggles at the cakes. They’re varied and beautifully decorated, and she’s at a loss to know what to pick. There’s an empty space, and she watches with excitement as two hands appear to place a new cake down. Instantly, she knows, it’s got Napoleon all over it, from the chocolate glaze to the gold leaf accent. Shooting upright, she’s shocked to see the man from the previous week’s milk incident straightening up. His expression is more serene, but his figure no less imposing in a chef’s coat and an apron dusted in cocoa powder.

“The Milk Man!” The exclamation is surprised out of her, but she recovers when she hears a snicker coming from the room behind him.

“I am not milkman?” His tone turns the statement into a question, and he stares at her in bewilderment a moment before understanding dawns upon him. Crossing his arms, he frowns askance at her. “The shop girl.”

“Don’t say ‘shop girl’ like that,” Gaby retorts indignantly, imitating his accent. “I was left wondering for days what someone could possibly need that much milk for. Three words! That’s all you needed to say.”

The crease in his brow clears and he laughs. “What words?”

His smiling gaze is fixed on her and it makes Gaby’s breath hitch. It’s a good look on him. “I’m. A. Baker.” She ticks the words off on her fingers and looks at him expectantly, unwilling to let him set her off her guard.

“Is ‘I’m’ really one word?”

“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I meant. I want that cake.”

When he looks at her in confusion, Gaby jabs a finger at the glass. “The one you just put in the case.”

“Don’t touch the glass,” he chides, but he doesn’t give her time to retaliate. “Do you want box?”

“Yes.” She glowers at him. “With a ribbon. And I want you to write ‘Happy Birthday’ on it.”

He bows mockingly and brings the cake to the back and the girl that’s been hovering behind the case comes over to ring up the purchase for her.

When he hands her the cake in a special carrying bag, Gaby realizes that she isn’t ready for this to be the last interaction they have, yet she can’t find an excuse to linger.

“Thank you.” It comes out petulantly, but Gaby doesn’t know what else to say; he gives her a smile and goes back into what must be the bakery.

When she gets to work and gives the cake to Napoleon, he’s beyond thrilled. When he unboxes it, Gaby’s infuriated to see that although the cake remains untouched, the box has HAPPY BIRTHDAY written in bold sharpie all over it, with a dainty red bow drawn on the top.

If she’s mollified by the small box of neat little macarons with a note addressed to her it’s no surprise. Through the rest of her shift, she’s not embarrassed to be caught rereading the note, hoping for more than just the face value of an offer to become a returning taste tester for his new cakes.

 


	2. he's blooming

Every Sunday morning at eleven, just like clockwork, Mr. Solo comes in and buys a posy of flowers. Illya’s assistant, Marianna, requests to work every Sunday morning since he started frequenting their shop. Illya’s initial response had been surprise, but when she had shrugged and unabashedly told him that it was simply because the man in the suit was a breath of fresh air, he’d laughed.

Illya loves everything about the flower shop. The sight, the smell, the art. He loves to arrange bouquets and boutonnieres, and with each one he imagines a situation and faces to go along with them. The spirit of giving, of love and friendship, and sorrow and sympathy, people speak with flowers and Illya loves to participate in the dialogue however he can. He’s a diehard romantic, and he refuses to acknowledge that he pathetically lives vicariously through his customers. Running his own shop is more than full time, as any small business owner can attest to. He has to play many roles at once, and he can’t just clock out and leave when business hours are over. It’s difficult to get into the dating game.

These are all the excuses he tells himself when he’s eating take-out and sitting on the couch, watching movies until he falls asleep on the couch.

Marianna calls in sick, and he’s not surprised. She’d barely been able to stay on her feet on Friday.

“Flirt with Mr. Solo for me,” she says sulkily, and he gives a noncommittal answer.

Late Sunday morning isn’t a very busy time for them, so he’s usually in the back while Marianna takes care of things out front, so he’s never really had a chance to meet this apparnet Adonis. If he’s honest, he feels the nervous excitement. Almost just as the clock begins to chime the hour, the bell on the door rings and Illya looks up expectantly. The man that walks in looks every bit the Grecian statue that Marianna described him as, and Illya attempts to force a smile.

In general quite good with customers, Illya knows that when he gets flustered he tends to tense up. Mr. Solo checks at the door, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before the smiling facade reappears. The self-assured grin only makes Illya sweat more, and he’s left wondering if the surprise was because instead of Marianna there’s a giant hunched over the desk, or if it’s because of the terrible frown that Illya just can’t seem to relax away.

“What do you want?” Illya grumbles, tapping his finger against his leg in a fruitless attempt to divert some of his nervous energy.

Mr. Solo has the grace not to be taken aback by the blunt and boorish manner in which the question is uttered.

“I’m in need of a bouquet. A large one.”  
“For…?”  
“A beautiful and dangerously offended blonde.” That smile flashes again, his expression inviting Illya to share in the joke.

He misses his opportunity, and instead stares awkwardly at his customer. Holding up a finger, he moves to the corner of the store where he’s just set out a few bouquets. Anxiety moves to the back of his mind, letting his professional side take over. This is what he’s accustomed to. This is what he loves, and he reviews the arrangements before shaking his head. “No. No…” he continues to mutter to himself before grabbing a handful of single stemmed flowers, passing them each under judgement as he does so. They need to send the correct message; it’s important to keep in mind the recipient as well as the giver, and the other bouquets are too paltry for someone of obvious taste like Mr. Solo. When he’s finally pleased, he turns around and realizes that instead of being on his phone or browsing the shop while waiting, Mr. Solo is leaning against the counter, watching him.

Illya, naturally, frowns. Busying himself with wrapping up the flowers, he doesn’t realize that Mr. Solo has selected a single orange rose.

“Would you...like that added to the bouquet?” Illya asks in a wooden voice, eyeing it with extreme prejudice, the very idea of adding such a clashing color to his bouquet making him doubt everything he’s assumed about the man.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

The response relaxes him, and as he hands over the receipt and the bouquet, Mr. Solo casually hands him the rose. Staring at it uncomprehendingly, he can feel his face heating up as the door opens and closes, and he remembers Marianna’s request that he flirt with Mr. Solo in her place. Illya looks up, watching the figure disappear down the street. Looking back at the rose, he clips it and puts it in a thin crystal vase.

“Is he mocking me?” He asks the rose, but it offers up no helpful response, and he catches himself staring at it throughout the day.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

When Marianna returns a few days later, he hands her the rose.

“What’s this for?”  
He shrugs. “You asked me to flirt with him.”  
“Did he give this to you?”  
“Yes.”  
She gasps with jealousy. “He’s never given me a flower!”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The next week, it’s a birthday posy for a spirited brunette and a red tulip. The week after that, a proxy order for a delivery in the neighboring state and a white camellia. It becomes a habit for Illya, and although their conversations are short, he enjoys their meetings. Marianna’s teasing, however, is not something he enjoys, but she likes to see him blush. The fourth time, when he’s given one of the gardenias that are filling the shop with their characteristic perfume, Marianna wonders aloud in despairing tones if he’ll be expecting her to make the buttonholes for their wedding ceremony.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

It’s become something so expected and routine that when his watch reads two o’clock and the only customers that have passed through were an elderly couple and a hopeful teenager, he realizes with a start that the twisting in his stomach is not from the hoagie but disappointment. Every time the bell rings, or someone dressed in a suit passes the window, there’s a spike of hope that makes the subsequent disappointment that much worse. Illya wonders what could have happened, and various scenarios pass through his mind.

It aggravates him, how someone he barely knows can occupy his thoughts so completely. Napoleon Solo. Their meetings never last more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time, much of it taken up by business transactions. What right did he have to disappointment or worry?

He spends a restless night trying to answer the question.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

“They were out of the orange blossom scones, so I got you a lemon one instead.”

It’s Monday afternoon and Illya’s feeling harassed, having spent the past half hour in line at the bakery. He holds the bag out to Marianna and finally notices the smug smile on her face. Instantly on his guard, he glances about the shop, but it’s empty. “What?” he asks, warily.

“You missed him,” she produces a daisy from behind her back, but the smug smile doesn’t go away even once he’s taken it.

“He also left you this.” Marianna holds up a card with something akin to triumph, and he realizes it’s Napoleon’s business card. When she flips it over and hands it to him, he can see Napoleon has scribbled out a note.

_Meet me for dinner at L’oncle tonight after you close? -N_

Illya almost doesn’t go. Marianna leaves with words of encouragement, but he stands in the dimly lit storefront with his hand on the door, keys in hand, for a full ten minutes before making up his mind.

After having spent an hour before closing sorting through everything in his shop, flopping back and forth between extravagant bouquets and minimalist boutonnières, he carries with him a single red chrysanthemum. A bit cliché, perhaps, and Illya is by no means experienced in what follows the act of selecting a flower for someone. Maybe tonight, he will finally learn how it feels.


	3. the great ice cream war of '15

“Ooh, strawberry cheesecake!”  
“One strawberry cheesecake left!”

The words, spoken in unison, cause the two shoppers to stare each other down across their shopping carts.

“I saw it first!” Gaby crosses her arms and casts him a challenging look.  
“Just because we’re friends, don’t think I’m going to play ‘gentleman’ and let you take it.”

The most infuriating thing about her neighbor and best friend, Napoleon, is that he’s always ready to give her back just as good as she gives. So, naturally, in the face of such a challenge, Gaby does what she must: she abandons her own cart and throws herself at Napoleon’s. She catches him off-guard, and he stumbles back a few paces. As soon as he recovers, he gives her a look of betrayal.

“Foul play!”  
“Look, we’re adults--”  
“Questionable.”  
“We’re _adults_ , I’m sure we can compromise.” She waits for a rejoinder, but he’s just staring at her expectantly. “I’ll buy it, and you can just come over and we’ll share.”

Napoleon scoffs and gestures vehemently with one hand. “Last time you said that, by the time I came over, you had eaten almost all the ice cream and then complained the rest of the night of a stomach ache. If I let you take it I’ll suffer twice over.”

“Fine! Damn!” Gaby throws up her hands in exasperation after a moment of intense glowering. “You buy it and we’ll just freaking Solomon this baby. Just cut the whole thing in half and put it in a new container. Deal?”

“Deal,” Napoleon responds, and Gaby wants to smack the smug smile right off his face. Not even friends can be trusted when food is involved.

He maneuvers around both her and the carts to claim his prize. Napoleon allows the sense of triumph to build to a dramatic swell before casting the freezer door open with a flourish. Let it never be said that Napoleon Solo is not a man of great panache. His eyes range over the cartons of infinitely inferior flavors to rest upon--

An empty spot.

“Gaby,” Napoleon says in a stricken tone. “ it’s... _gone_.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Sulkily standing in line, each feeling that the moment has been anticlimactic, each with their own differing second choices, Gaby and Napoleon lament over their loss with one another. They both agree that a movie night is all that can ease their troubled minds.

All of a sudden, Napoleon’s hand grips Gaby’s arm and startles her. “Gaby,” he hisses, nodding at the neighboring cashier. “There’s our ice cream.”

A quick glance at the other line proves this, and they eye the customer’s broad back with hostility. “Let’s jump him in the parking lot and make him trade,” Gaby said, flexing her fingers. At that moment, the ice cream thief gathers up his bags and turns to exit, and the duo sustain yet another shock: it’s their local Hot Mailman Illya.

Silence falls between them, the ambient sounds of the grocery store filling it completely as they contemplate their ill luck. “I’d still jump him,” Gaby offers with a shrug.

“Kinky,” mutters Napoleon, earning him a smack in the arm.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The rain beats out a soporific rhythm on the windows as Illya drives. He knows that it is considered an oddity that he actually enjoys the rain. His comrades might make a good point: it certainly could be an uncomfortable hindrance when delivering letters, but he likes that Lazy Sunday feel of a rainy day. One might have thought that his stint in the Russian military would have given him cause to want to never see a raindrop again, and yet it’s when he feels the most comfortable.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that on sunny days, everyone is out. The world feels crowded and frenetic, as though the sunshine is a driving force and you are expected to be doing something at all hours; no loitering, no taking your time, get your responsibilities done, go, go, go.

No, Illya likes the rainy days.

Always quick and efficient, he’s spent almost his entire life being forced to do things at other people’s paces; but right now, in this moment, Illya is relaxed and packing the letters for this half of the street in his satchel.

It might have seemed like an oddity, his choosing this profession after his earlier life experiences, but delivering mail helps him to feel like he’s participating in life. They represent something important, letters and packages. Certainly there is a lot of junk mail, but interspersed among them are letters from friends and family, miles or oceans between them. Packages full of “I thought of you” and “Happy Birthday!”, they’re important. There are people who wait the whole morning to see if he brings them something from their grandchildren to cheer them. It’s important to them, so it’s important to him.

It’s intimate, in an odd way. Illya gets some glimpse into the personal lives of all the people on his route, and inadvertently learns many things about them. There’s a couple on his route whose only daughter moves from country to country for her work and is always sending back candy (which they kindly share); the elderly woman whose younger brother is just one state over tells him anecdotes from their childhood; and there’s the neighbors who live on opposite ends of the street that send each other mail on an almost daily basis.

That last couple puzzle him. It’s nice that they send each other mail, presumably in addition to talking in person, but it’s definitely unusual. Today is a letter for Gaby, the last house on his route. The lid of her mailbox clangs shut, and Illya pauses to see if she is going to come out. With a small sigh and a mix of emotions he isn’t even going to attempt to decipher, he makes his way back to the truck and heads back to the mail center.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The rain seems a bit more gloomy as he drives to the grocery store, but his mood improves significantly as he manages to get what appears to be the last pint of strawberry cheesecake ice cream. There had been a cart in the way, but it was easily maneuvered around. The song playing through his earbuds as he reaches for the ice cream is a triumphant orchestral swell that makes him wish there was someone to high five.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Two days later, Illya finds a letter from Gaby to Napoleon. He isn’t surprised, as that’s generally how letter-writing goes, but it isn’t until he’s walking up to Napoleon’s door that he realizes it doesn’t actually bear the man’s name. Freezing in place with his features twisted in a frown, Illya realizes it’s addressed to him. A mistake? Surely not, as it bears his full name.

A creaking sound makes him look up to see Napoleon, door open, leaning against the frame. He’s always dressed to the nines but it always makes Illya wonder what he’d look like in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Or no shirt, really, perhaps with his hair all messed up and-- “Mr. Solo, I think there has been a mistake.”

Napoleon makes a silencing gesture and calls over his shoulder without breaking eye contact. “Gaby, can you join me for a moment?”

Illya begins to feel that he’s losing a grip on the situation, and he just stands there in silence. His gaze travels about, trying to find something to latch onto, anywhere other than the man staring straight at him with an indolent smile. Gaby loops her arm through his, and that movement catches Illya’s attention. Not for the first time, he feels a vague undirected stab of envy.

“Ahh, you got our letter. Well?”  
“He hasn’t yet opened it.”  
“Oh. Well. I’ll just tell you then. It’s an invitation. Once you’re done with work, come over and join us for dinner.”

The last vestige of control over this situation slips away from Illya, and he blinks stupidly. It’s like some plot from a bad porno, and the more nervous he gets the angrier his expression grows. Illya’s fairly certain that he’s blushing, if the smirk directed at him and the heat in his face are any indication. “I--” He starts, clenching his jaw. “I’ll bring dessert.”

Turning on his heel and taking long strides back to his van, he can hear a clear peal of laughter from Gaby at Napoleon’s words. “You’ll _be_ the dessert.”


	4. che stronzo

Victoria Vinceguerra has worked hard to make a name for herself in the restaurant world. Careers are made or destroyed by her reviews, and she’s not a kind and gentle person. She’s touted as ruthlessly honest, merciless in her critiques, eloquent in her praise, and possessed of exquisite taste.

In reality, she plays it all as a game and is extremely fickle: Victoria’s just as likely to annihilate a longtime friend with a cutting remark as she is to lavish praise on an enemy. It keeps people interested in her opinions, it gives her power, and above all, it entertains her.

Napoleon Solo, the culinary darling of the west coast, opened his own restaurant about a month ago. Victoria was there for the grand opening, and she went with every expectation of being displeased. By all accounts, Chef Solo is a master of his craft, adept at reading his guests’ tastes and crafting delectable dishes for their pleasure. The critics say that he has style as well as love for the food he creates, and the inferior are as over-awed by his attention to detail when it comes to presentation as they are by the fancy names on his menu.

The man himself is all charm, but it’s empty. It’s all an act, and he crosses her the wrong way when he flashes that smile that her rival calls meltingly beautiful.

Her review is comprehensive and unflattering.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Victoria is lounging about in a silk negligee trimmed with lace, a brocade and fur lined dressing gown slipping down her shoulder as she types away at a blog entry. In the background, the melodious strain of violins emanates from mounted speakers, cutting through the ambient silence.

The interruption of a steady knock on her door breaks her concentration, and she frowns at the clock. Although she’d had dinner plans, she’d broken them in favor of a night in, and it wasn’t yet time for her assistant to arrive with her dinner.

Cinching the belt of the gown about her waist, she puts an eye to the peephole.

The warped fisheye image of Napoleon stares back at her.

It takes a few moments for her to find her composure, and she throws the door open as he’s raising his hand again, bulging bags rustling.

“You,” Victoria utters in tones of complete loathing. “What are--” Napoleon pushes past her, excusing himself due to the heaviness of the bags. “Leave. Immediately. How dare you come to my home. How did you find where I live?”

“I can’t do both. Do you want me to leave, or answer your question?”  
“How?”  
“Your assistant,” He replies breezily.  
“I was not aware he was so keen to leave my employ.”

Napoleon casts her a smile that seems to blend apology with condescending sympathy. “Good help is really so hard to find nowadays.”

Victoria’s eyes flash and she gestures toward the door. “I will call the police if you don’t leave.”

“If I leave, you’ll never know why I came. Consider me...your personal chef for the day. If you like what I make, you have to admit it. If not, well...you can call the cops on me.”

There’s something in the look he gives her that makes her resolve waver; and after a brief internal battle, she lifts her chin and shuts the door, then glides over to a strategically placed chaise lounge. Reclining, she arrays the voluminous fabric about herself and waves a languid hand. “Very well. You may begin.”

Napoleon rubs his hands together and stares around the kitchen expectantly. Victoria finds the  stupid look on his face immensely irritating. There’s something in his theatrical demeanor that makes her realize that he’s waiting for her to ask. Seeing no other way out of this situation, she obliges. “For what are you searching?” Her exasperation is evident in the slow drawl of her words, but it doesn’t seem to phase him. He merely gestures about, the confusion in his expression growing.

“Where are all your cooking utensils? Pots? Pans?”

“I don’t have any.” Napoleon’s eyes nearly pop out of his head and Victoria rolls her eyes as she pushes herself off the chaise in a manner that shows just how much effort it takes. “I’m rich. I’m powerful. Other people cook for me. My kitchen is just for show. I suppose that means you’ll just have to leave.” She flashes a pained smile at him and moves to lean against the island counter.

“No need to despair, Victoria. I brought everything I’ll need. I’m always prepared.”  
“Then why bother asking?”  
“I just can’t imagine having such an empty kitchen.”

Closing her eyes and drawing a deep, calming breath, she’s disappointed to see that he hasn’t vanished when she opens them again. “Well? Are you going to just stare at the food until it spoils, or are you going to cook me something? Perhaps something edible as well as palatable this time, Napoleon?”

Casting the words over her shoulder as she walks to her bedroom to change out of her loungewear, Victoria takes the opportunity to send a furious text to her assistant. The wardrobe selection proves to be more of a challenge, and she feels a vague sort of annoyance that she cares at all. It’s not as though she’s trying to impress, him, afterall.

After discarding several likely candidates, she finally emerges from her room in a simple black dress with a collar embellished by crystals. Although she had been tempted by a fleeting impulse to dazzle him with an extravagant silk dress, Victoria’s opted for a veneer of nonchalance.

The violent sizzle of meat searing and the steady rhythm of a knife flying across a cutting board floats down the hallway, and the aroma from a sauce that is just reaching a simmer mixes with an array of unfamiliar scents. It fills the small space of her kitchen and spills out to greet her, and she pauses in the doorway to take in the tableau Napoleon presents, fully immersed in his work and surrounded by beautiful vegetables and flour dusted across his forearms.

Arrested by the sight, Victoria wonders what’s different. It takes her a moment, but she realizes that she’s only seen his public face. This is the real Napoleon, with no pretense and no pretension. He’s an artist at work, and she finds it impossible to look away. Drawing closer as quietly as she can, she slides onto one of the stools at the island. Chin in hand, she watches him work.

It’s fascinating to watch, as she’s never really seen the full process before. He doesn’t measure anything, he doesn’t time anything; he just seems to know instinctively when something is ready for the next step. He slices through a bulb of fennel and is left with beautiful, uniform slices. Victoria thinks she might have cut up an apple once, and wonders how he can do it so swiftly.

Slipping a magazine out from under a bowl of oranges, she pretends to flip through it. After all, she doesn’t want to administer to his vanity.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

When all is finished, Victoria is shocked to realize how late it has become. Napoleon’s cleaned up everything and there’s a place set for two. Directing a wary gaze at the chef, she’s pleased to see that there’s a genuine smile playing about the corners of his mouth as he pours out a taste of wine and hands it off to her.

“It’s not poisoned.”

Victoria blinks, realizing she’s been staring at him, and gives him her most unimpressed look before she tastes the wine. Graciously deciding not to be contrary, she accepts his recommendation with a graceful bow of the head, and he pours out her glass as well as his own.

“Specially prepared for you tonight, Signorina Vinceguerra, is a traditional _braciole_ with my own signature _cavatelli_. On the side is a fennel and Moro blood orange salad on a bed of dressed arugula. For dessert, we’ll have _affogato_.”

He stares at her, and Victoria feels entrapped by the honest anticipation in his eyes. An uncomfortable moment is alleviated as she looks down at the plate and slowly and deliberately lifts her fork and samples each of the components of the plate. There’s a passing thought of forgiveness for those who so tritely compare him to a chiseled grecian statue. 

The meat is flavorful and tender, the provolone in the filling providing a sharp bite; the cavatelli is so delicate that it melts in her mouth, the sauce covering both is simple in profile and showcases the bright, concentrated flavor of tomatoes; the bitterness of the blood orange, its flesh a deep merlot, is cut by the sweet hint of raspberry, the fennel a surprising delight.

It feels deeply personal, this dish. Its lack of ostentation invokes a sentimentality that she’s unaccustomed to, and Victoria wonders if maybe Napoleon is not as irritating as she first thought, if he drops the act. The food feels like childhood memories; not hers, but maybe his. Christmas dinners and Sunday brunches.

“It’s delicious,” she admits in a flat tone.  
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that for me? I wasn't recording.”

Definitely irritating.

 


End file.
